


My Fine Feathered Friend

by Lixxle



Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: Adult-type touching, F/M, Fabric Softener, Fluff, Goblin Bathing, Humor, Humour, Romance, fashion - Freeform, feather duster, letter writing, slow-burn, wrestlers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2020-11-26 01:47:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20922137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lixxle/pseuds/Lixxle
Summary: The tale of how a fashion-conscious goblin and a Chicken of Destiny brought about a love affair to last the ages. Contains a dash of ol' fashioned romance and some adult-type touching for good measure.





	1. Sometimes, the noise in your closet is just a chicken-loving cross-dresser.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: (looking through my handbag) I own two sticks of gum, three used tissues, a protein bar, a red leather wallet, an iPod that serves as a mobile David Bowie shrine, and an old ticket to an Elvis impersonator show that I went to in Vegas. Unless it fell into the lining of my bag, I don't seem to own the Labyrinth. I did own a chicken once. It was an over-rated experience.

**Prologue: The Chicken of Destiny. **

When Sarah looked back on events, she realized that everything that had happened—everything that took place—was, in fact, all because of a chicken. A particularly persistent, bloodthirsty, chicken. But a chicken, no more, no less.

It was kind of humbling to have one's destiny decided by a piece of poultry.

* * *

**Chapter 1: Sometimes, the noise in your closet is just a chicken-loving cross-dresser. **

Sarah was an imaginative young woman. She could spin bedtime stories about knights questing through enchanted lands, cursed monsters that terrorized great cities, and beautiful princesses who were brilliant and brave and true. Her stories were so vivid that they could make her little brother shriek with laughter one moment; or cower fearfully under the bedcovers the next (always with one eye peeking out, watching his sister until she vanquished the monsters and made it safe for him to come out again).

But one night, when Sarah heard a t_hump, thump, thump_ and a muffled _squawk_ coming from her closet, she immediately knew that there _was _something inside her closet (a thumping, squawking something), rather than just the workings of her rather splendid imagination.

She pulled her old, blue dressing gown over her pajamas and looked around for a weapon. Armed with a feather duster, Sarah crept over to the closet. After mentally counting to three, she threw open the doors.

"Ah, _ha_!" she yelled, brandishing her feather duster in a menacing fashion.

"AAAAHHHHHH!" yelled four small goblins, one of whom was wearing her pair of hot pink stilettos.

Sarah looked at the cowering goblins in shock. "GOBLINS? There are GOBLINS in my closet?" Then she noticed the indignant bundle of black feathers huddled in the corner. "And a chicken."

A goblin wearing a rusty sieve on his head piped up. "Please, Lady—we were only chasing our chicken, Rosalinda!” He pointed to the duster. “Please, Lady—do not hurt us with the fluffy killing stick!"

The others nodded in terror.

Sarah lowered the feather duster. "This won't hurt you. Look"—she moved it closer to the cowering goblins—"it's soft!"

The goblin wearing the sieve moved hesitantly toward the duster. With his eyes scrunched closed, he stretched out his hand until his grubby fingers just brushed the tips of the blue feathers.

"Oooohh," he said blissfully. "Soft!"

Sarah raised the duster and tickled his face with it.

"Tickle, tickle," she said teasingly.

The goblin giggled with delight and fell on his back so that she could tickle his stomach. Seeing his weakened position, two of the other goblins promptly jumped on him, followed by the chicken. As they gleefully squabbled for the privilege of holding the feather duster, Sarah turned her attention to the goblin wearing her stilettos.

"So, what are you doing in my closet wearing my shoes?" she asked, kneeling in front of him.

The little goblin reached down and stroked the pink leather in the same way that a child strokes a fluffy dog.

"Pretty," he said, stroking happily.

Sarah shook her head ruefully. The poor thing seemed to be going through some sort of dubious fashion crisis. Given the way that their king dressed, it was fairly understandable.

By now, the other goblins had finished their squabble, and the one with the sieve hat had taken control of the duster.

"More tickle?" he asked, holding out the duster to Sarah hopefully.

Sarah took it from his hand. "Okay, but just for a little while. I have work tomorrow."

The goblins nodded solemnly and lined up, ready.

Sarah proceeded to tickle them one at a time until they were crying with laughter and rolling around so violently that they were in danger of falling out of the closet.

After about an hour, Sarah brushed her long, dark hair from her eyes and stood up.

"That's it, guys—time's up! I've got to get to bed. Here"—she handed the duster to the goblin wearing the sieve—"you can take it with you."

Eyes shining, the goblin bowed. "Thank you, Lady! Thank you!"

"Goodnight, guys!" Sarah said, closing the closet door.

"Goodnight, Lady!" she heard their muffled reply.

Suddenly, she remembered.

"Hey!" she called out, opening the door.

But they were already gone.

So were her pink stilettos.

* * *

Jareth sprawled on the throne, one leg hitched over the armrest, one hand rubbing his eyes. He felt a headache coming on. A giant, goblin kingdom-sized headache. He had to get away.

"Is it too much to ask that someone, anyone at all, wishes something away to me?" he asked testily. He looked up at the small-beaked goblin polishing the back of the throne. "Is that too much to ask, Squeak? Is it?"

Squeak wisely shook his head. "No majesty," he said, spitting on the throne and rubbing at it with a dirty, red rag.

Jareth sighed. "Frankly, I don't even care what they wish away. I'll take anything right now. Baby. Kitten. A fully-grown accountant…"

"Accountant?" asked Squeak.

"Accountant," said Jareth, his face in his hands.

Wallowing in his misery, Jareth took a moment to notice the chanting…followed by uproarious laughter…that was starting to get louder and louder in his throne room.

"Tickle, tickle, tickle YEAHHHYY!"

"Tickle, tickle, tickle YEAHHHYY!"

"Tickle, tickle, tickle YEAHHHYY!"

"What the blasted..." said Jareth, looking up.

He watched, perplexed, as the goblin Ignor, in his rusty sieve hat, tickled one of the younger goblins with a blue feather duster.

"Tickle, tickle, tickle YEAHHHYY!" all the goblins chanted, as the young goblin fell to the floor in giggles.

The young goblin then picked himself up, dusted himself off, and ran to the back of the queue as the next goblin in line walked up to Ignor ready to be tickled.

"Tickle, tickle, tickle YEAHHHYY!" they all chanted as that goblin, too, fell to the floor in laughter, picked himself off and ran to the back of the queue.

Jareth looked on in shock. It was the most organized and civilized display from his subjects that he had ever witnessed. Sure, there was a small altercation when one goblin tried to have his pet chicken tickled, but that was quickly dealt with, and the game soon continued. Jareth was almost reluctant to stop them, but his curiosity got the better of him.

"Stop!" he said, rising from his throne. He stalked over to Ignor and bent down so that they were at eye level.

"Ignor," he said curiously, "what is it that you are doing?"

Ignor smiled happily and straightened the sieve on his head. "It's the tickle game, Majesty!" He reached out with the feather duster and began to rub it on Jareth's leather vest.

"Tickle, tickle, tickle—" the goblins chanted.

Jareth's hand shot out and took the duster.

"—ohhhhhhhhhh," the goblins said, glumly.

Jareth reached out and grabbed the front of Ignor's shirt.

"Ignor," he said, his voice deathly calm, "where did you get this?"

Ignor swallowed. "It's the Lady's fluffy killing stick! She showed us the tickle game, but she couldn't play for long because of the work, so she gave us the stick. It's soft," he said, sighing happily.

Jareth stared down at the grubby, little goblin, perplexed. How many 'ladies' could his goblins possibly know?

_Well, there was one particular lady… _

The thought of that particular lady still made Jareth’s stomach clench in a most uncomfortable fashion.

"Ignor,” he said quietly, ignoring the clenching altogether, “when you say 'the Lady' do you mean Sarah? Did Sarah give you the…" Jareth paused, raising his eyebrow, "fluffy killing stick?"

Ignor nodded, eyeing the feather duster longingly. "Yes, Sarah! The Lady!"

Jareth sighed and released Ignor’s shirt. His goblins were visiting Sarah again and apparently stealing her cleaning products. He was about to question Ignor about what he had been doing in Sarah's house to begin with, when a sudden scraping noise caught his attention.

Looking up, Jareth saw a small goblin shuffling unsteadily toward him in a pair of bright, pink stilettos. He took a long look at the little goblin—eyeing him from the tips of his oversized pink shoes to the long, black chicken feather sticking up from behind his ear at a rather jaunty angle—and smirked.

"You're looking quite dashing today, Skeep,” he said to the goblin, “even though pink is not quite your color. I hope for your sake that Sarah doesn't notice that you've run off with her shoes."

Skeep bent down and stroked the stolen shoes. "Pretty," he said happily.

* * *


	2. It's a present.

The next time the goblins appeared in Sarah's closet (just around bedtime on a Friday night), they brought a long, gray box with them.

"Here Lady," said Ignor, holding the box out to Sarah. "From the King."

Sarah did not want to touch that box. “Just…just put it on the bed. Thanks.”

Ignor shrugged and placed the large parcel carefully on Sarah’s printed bedcover. “You should open it!”

“Should I?” Sarah stared at the parcel sitting innocently amongst her rumpled linen. Part of her was somewhat…excited?…that the Goblin King had sent her a package. The other part was vaguely terrified about what it would contain.

She hesitantly touched the velvet-soft, gray wrapping and tried to ignore the dirty handprints all over the box.

"It's a present, Lady!" said the goblin wearing stripy blue socks.

Sarah snorted. "It's not a crystal, is it?"

Ignor shook his head until his sieve hat fell over his eyes. "It's better!"

The goblins all eagerly nodded.

Sarah took a deep breath. Her presents from the Goblin King to date had included a trick snake and hallucinogenic fruit. He wasn't exactly Santa Claus. 

_Though,_ a wistful inner voice said, _there was that white ballgown…._

Sarah quickly brushed away that thought. She had half a mind to ignore the package completely…until she looked down into the excited, expectant eyes of the goblins before her.

Sighing, she rolled up the sleeves of her oversized, blue pajama top, and cautiously opened the lid, half expecting the Goblin King himself to come springing out in all his tight-pant, glittery glory.

When nothing happened, she looked into the box and blinked in surprise. Inside, she found a shiny, black feather duster. She picked it up and peered at it closely. Those feathers looked familiar.

"Hmm," she said thoughtfully, "these look a lot like chicken feathers. I hope no-one lost a pet to make this."

"They came from Rosalinda's tail," said Ignor.

Sarah shook the duster cautiously, expecting a shower of feathers to spill from the handle. When no feathery-shower emerged, she smiled. "Well…thank Rosalinda for me."

As Sarah was putting the duster back into the box she noticed a card written in a strong, black scrawl. She picked it up and began to read as the goblins jumped out of the closet, excited to enact merry-mayhem in her bedroom.

"_Dear Sarah,_” she read.

_“Forgive my goblins for stealing your "fluffy killing stick.” In most circumstances, I would have demanded that they return it to you immediately; regrettably, it has been used to fondle most of the goblin population during that infernal tickle game you taught them, so I suspect that it is no longer sufficiently hygienic to function as a cleaning tool. Instead, please accept this substitute that the goblins made for you. The feathers came from the current chicken-toss champion, so it is quite an honorable duster."_

Sarah looked up at Ignor. "Rosalinda is the current chicken-toss champion?"

"Four seasons running," he said proudly.

The rest of the goblins nodded happily.

"Well, thank you for the gift." Sarah paused. "Though, what about the shoes that you scamps stole?" She turned the card over.

_“I was unable to separate Skeep from your fine pair of shoes,_” she read._“He considers himself something of a fashion trendsetter. Thankfully, he almost fell headfirst into the bog while wearing your footwear, so I believe that stilettos will be one trend that my sheep-like subjects will be reluctant to follow. Skeep has quite the eye for beauty, so I think it best that you keep him well away from your shoe collection and any other more 'personal' items.” _

_What does he mean by personal items?_ she wondered.

She looked up from the card to find Skeep eyeing her underwear draw longingly.

"Oh, no you don't!" Sarah quickly grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and shut the drawer. “Let’s stay out of there, okay?”

“Okay!” Skeep said happily.

Sarah carefully placed him on the floor and watched, bemused, as the small goblin patted the rug quite contentedly. She turned her attention back to the card.

"_To compensate for the loss of your shoes, please accept these in exchange. They are far more functional than the ones you lost, and you'll find that they barely ever scuff, even when kicking the heftiest of goblins. Fond regards, Jareth, the Goblin King." _

Sarah dug down to the bottom of the box and pulled out a pair of black, knee-length leather boots very similar to those worn by the Goblin King. Quickly stepping out of her fluffy, pink slippers, she pulled on the boots, turning her leg to admire her new footwear from all angles. She had to admit that they were exceptionally fine—soft, supple, and (dare she say it), just the littlest bit sexy.

Now she knew why the Goblin King strutted.

The goblins watched as Sarah paced across the floor in her new boots and applauded enthusiastically.

Ignor grinned, delighted. "Now, you look like the King!"

The rest of the goblins cheered.

Sarah smiled mischievously and grabbed a snowglobe from the top of her shelf. Holding it up, she struck her best Goblin King pose and looked haughtily down at Ignor.

"I bought you a gift," she said in a clipped English accent, holding the globe out to the goblin.

Ignor took the snowglobe from her, his eyes wide with awe. "What is it?"

Sarah raised an eyebrow. "It's a crystal,” she said, her tone indifferent. “Nothing more. Do you want it?"

The goblins started rolling around the floor, laughing hysterically. Skeep teetered in his stilettos.

"Lady's like King, but she's a girl!" he chortled, falling backward, pink heels wiggling in the air.

Ignor struck a kingly pose with the snowglobe. "Nothing nothing tra la la."

The goblins and Sarah shrieked with glee.

Sarah wiped a tear from her eye and ushered them all out to the kitchen. "Let me introduce you fine fellows to chocolate cookies."

* * *

Rosalinda the chicken stared—utterly mesmerized—at her reflection in Jareth's highly polished boots. She was curious: Was the particularly fine-looking chicken staring back at her a friend or foe?

Foe, she decided, flexing her claw.

(after all, you don't become chicken-toss champion four seasons running without developing a vicious, competitive streak)

Just as Rosalinda decided to give this strange chicken a sharp warning peck, a hand shot out and closed around her throat. Within seconds, she was staring into the mismatched eyes of the Goblin king.

"I think not, my pet," Jareth purred. He grinned, all malice and sharp points, at the rather stunned Rosalinda. "Not unless you want me to toss you into the bog well before the next competition."

Rosalinda uttered a muted _squawk_and kicked her legs defiantly. Jareth tilted his head and looked closely at the rather unrepentant fowl. Although he clearly had the upper hand in the situation (and this hand was locked around her throat), Rosalinda was far from beat; in fact, she looked as though she was mentally preparing to peck out his eyes.

"Such disrespect to your sovereign, Rosalinda. I expected better from you." Flicking his wrist, Jareth tossed her across the room. "Think of it as training for the next contest."

From his perch at the back of the throne, Squeak watched as Rosalinda soared through the air, making a graceful arc as she flew across the room. "She has nice form."

Jareth watched as Rosalinda hit the ground in a flurry of feathers and _tsked_. "Her landing needs work."

Rosalinda lurched to her feet and threw Jareth a black look, clucking Dark Things under her breath.

Jareth pursed his lips. "She doesn't like me.” He watched as the chicken stalked away, still clucking. “The feeling is quite mutual, Rosalinda, I assure you," he said, pitching his voice so that she could hear him across the room. He laughed uproariously for a moment at his cutting remark, then stopped and looked at Squeak. "Well?"

Squeak dutifully started laughing so hard that he fell backwards off the throne. Jareth peered over the back of the seat and watched as Squeak scraped himself off the floor.

Mid-smirk, Jareth’s attention was caught by a tug on his trousers. He looked down at Skeep, who was holding out a package.

"From Lady," said Skeep, wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve.

In addition to the pink stilettos, Skeep was now wearing a bright, red tea cosy on his small pointed head.

Jareth tried to suppress his smile beneath a stern look. "Really Skeep! Pink shoes, red hat—it clashes terribly."

Skeep looked mortally offended. His dirty, little hand reached up and stroked the tea cosy on his head until his smile returned.

Jareth shook his head and took the package from Skeep's outstretched hand, surprised to have received something from Sarah. As he began to open the wrapping, he noticed his heart rate beginning to quicken. He paused, his hands poised above the box. He probed the sensation and the feeling that accompanied it and realized that it was…_excitement_.

How long had it been since he had felt excited? 

_You know the answer to that old boy_, he thought ruefully.

Just as he began to open the package, he noticed that most of his goblins were huddled, heads down, in a circle and positively cooing in wonder. He carefully put the package on his throne, stood up, and crossed the room until he was standing behind the transfixed group. Although his footsteps were rather loud on the dirty, stone floor, the goblins remained oblivious to the fact that the Goblin King was rapidly approaching so entranced were they with the object in Ignor's hand.

Jareth waited until he was directly behind them and boomed pleasantly, "Last one to bow down to me gets thrown into the bog."

"AHHH!" screamed the goblin hordes, desperately crashing into each other as they attempted to throw themselves onto the ground.

Jareth laughed heartily and noticed that Ignor was still clutching the object of interest in his hand. With a quick stride, Jareth bent down, and took the object from the goblin.

"Ignor, what do you have this time?" he asked, peering at the snowglobe.

Ignor and the rest of the goblins scrambled up from the ground and surrounded Jareth.

"It's from the Lady," Ignor said reverently. "It's magic!"

Jareth rolled his eyes. "This isn't magic—this is plastic."

Ignor shook his head and took the globe back from Jareth. "Look, Majesty. Now, it is sunny." He pointed to the little beach scene inside the globe, with its sandy beach and sunbathing tourists. "But now"—he shook the globe—"it is snowing."

Sure enough, snow swirled around the unfortunate sunbathers.

"OOOOoooooooooowwww magic!" cooed the surrounding goblins.

Jareth snatched the globe back from Ignor. "This," he said, speaking slowly, just as you would to a child, "is not magic. You can't make it snow in"—he peered inside the globe—"_Tijuana_ by shaking this plastic toy. This is a cheap souvenir. Now _this_"—he turned his wrist until a crystal appeared in the palm of his hand—"is _real_magic."

Jareth threw the crystal high into the air. As it hit the roof of the throne room, tiny flakes of snow began to fall in a frosty a steady stream.

"Yeahhhhyy! Snow!" cheered the goblins.

"Just like Tijuana!" yelled Skeep.

Jareth retreated back to his throne to watch the joyous chaos. He could not help but smile as goblins ran around the room, trying to catch snowflakes on their tongue. Most of the time they failed and ended up tripping over each other and the chickens, leading to a feathery, kicking, screaming, snow-covered bundle of chaos.

Jareth turned his attention back to the parcel Sarah had given him. The wrapping was white with embossed, white shells. He ran a black-gloved finger over the raised design and then pulled off the paper. A blue envelope was nestled on top of white tissue paper. Opening it, Jareth pulled out a letter in Sarah's careful handwriting.

"_Dear Goblin King, _

_Thank you for the remarkable replacement duster. I'm sure that my furniture will feel rather privileged to be dusted with a four-time chicken-toss champion. The boots are lovely, too. They have given me some surprising insights into your personality." _

_Whatever does she mean by that?_ he thought and quickly read on.

_"And they are so comfortable—I find myself not wanting to take them off, even to go to bed."_

At this point, Jareth was struck with a rather pleasant image of Sarah wearing only her black boots and a smile. He shivered a little but blamed it on the snow.

"_You really didn't have to replace the shoes; I think Skeep looks far better in them than I do. I guess you were right—you can be generous." _Jareth smirked at that.

A mighty crash caused Jareth look up from the letter. The hastily arranged chicken sled races were not going well. Several of the contenders were dizzily trying to regain their balance after a particularly nasty collision.

"Careful now," he said, peering at the wreckage.

The goblins all stopped and stared at him, open-mouthed at his concern.

He sighed. "Fine then—loser gets kicked into the bog."

The goblins cheered and went back to tethering the wandering chickens to the sleds.

Jareth went back to his letter. _"So, to say thanks, please find enclosed a box of double-chocolate cookies. They're for the goblins." _

"The GOBLINS!" he fumed. "I give her the finest pair of custom-made leather boots in the Underground and she gives gifts to the GOBLINS?! You can be so cruel, Sarah!"

He threw the letter away, dejected. After a minute or so, he looked down at the letter on the floor. He tapped the bridge of his nose thoughtfully, then picked it up and continued reading.

"_If you ever find that you need a moment of peace and quiet, just hold up the box and ask, ‘Who wants a cookie?’ Trust me, it's like magic. Give it a try."_

Jareth snorted. The cookies would have to be drugged to get the cretins to shut-up and give him a moment of peace.

"_The goblins are welcome to visit anytime, but please ask them to leave Rosalinda at home—it took ages to clean the feathers out of the couch. Kind regards, Sarah. P.S. The book of puzzles is for you." _

Jareth smiled broadly. He pulled out the puzzle book and flicked through the pages. There were word puzzles, and crosswords, and best of all, mazes. Deliciously twisted mazes. Jareth rubbed his hands in glee.

Just then, there was a ridiculously loud crash and Jareth was forced to duck as goblins were thrown through the air.

"That's it," Jareth yelled, reaching into Sarah's package. "Who wants a cookie?"

The effect was immediate. The goblins scrambled to sit cross-legged on the floor, perfectly silent, and held out their hands. Jareth looked at them in shock. Sarah was a genius. He quickly handed out the cookies and went back to his book of puzzles.

"Now you precious thing," he said, turning to a particularly difficult maze, "prepare to be conquered."


	3. How to get your goblins their whitest and brightest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: All I own is Skeep. But I'd probably swap him for a box of bananas.

Sarah was in the middle of sorting her laundry when the goblins next paid her a visit.

"Hello, Lady!" they called, scrambling out of her closet.

Sarah glanced at them over her shoulder and grinned. "Hi, guys! How've you been?"

"King made it snow," said the goblin with the blue horns.

Sarah paused, midway through folding a pair of socks. "Snow?"

Ignor nodded. "In the throne room."

"Like Tijuana," said Skeep, as he tried to pull a lacy, pink bra from the laundry basket.

Sarah quickly pried it from his dirty, little fingers. "Well…I guess that was nice of the King."

Oddly nice. Sarah found it puzzling that Jareth would try so hard to amuse his subjects. She sighed and resumed folding her socks. The man was an enigma, wrapped in a mystery, wrapped in…well, tight pants.

She tried not to dwell on _that_mental image. It made her a little warm.

"Did you have fun?" she asked, folding a t-shirt a little more energetically than warranted.

"We had chicken sled races…until the chickens started to freeze," said Ignor.

"And we made snow goblins!" said the small goblin, who had been licking Sarah's potted plant.

"By throwing goblins in the snow," said Ignor.

They all started laughing uproariously.

Except for Skeep.

"’Twas cold," he said, angrily.

Sarah reached down and lifted him up. "You shouldn't pick on poor Skeep. He's…" She looked down at Skeep in his red tea cosy and (now distressingly grubby) pink stilettos and frowned. "Ah…_special_."

Skeep stared at her as if she were the moon and the stars.

"And then we got cookies!" said Ignor.

_Ah, ha_! thought Sarah. So, the mighty Goblin King followed her advice, hey? She felt rather happy to hear that.

She carefully placed Skeep onto the bed beside her laundry basket. "Did you sit very quietly and eat your cookie just as I showed you?"

They all nodded. "Yes, Lady!"

Sarah smiled and started to fold her towels. "Very good goblins."

"We were very good,” Ignor said, nodding. “_So _good that the King gave us more cookies."

Sarah stopped folding. "How many more?"

"The whole box!" said the goblin, who was now cautiously trying to bite the potted plant.

Sarah stared at them in horror. "Then what happened?"

"We got happy!" Skeep said merrily.

_This doesn't sound good_, thought Sarah. "What happens when you get happy?" she asked, fearful of the answer.

"Spinning and singing!" they shouted.

_That doesn't sound **too** bad_, thought Sarah. "Show me," she ordered.

It was bad. Very bad. Colossally bad. The goblins started spinning around as fast as they could, arms outstretched, singing loud enough to drown out an air-raid siren and extremely off-key—so off-key, in fact, that in some parallel universe it would probably be _in_ key.

Sarah's eyes began to water just listening to the sound.

As the goblins grew dizzy from spinning, they began to crash into one another, and the 'singing' became mingled with screams of pain as they fell into the path of Skeep's flailing stilettos.

Sarah looked at the catastrophe sprawled on her bedroom floor, multiplied it by a box of cookies, and suddenly had a good idea of the kind of horror that the Goblin King had witnessed.

"Oh, no," she groaned, covering her face with her hands.

Ignor looked up at her from beneath assorted goblin limbs. "That's what the King said! And then he put us in a net…"

"…and hung us over the bog," said the goblin, who was now chewing on a mouthful of potted plant.

“Till we weren't as happy anymore," sighed Ignor.

Skeep raised his dirty sleeve to Sarah's face. "Smelly."

Sarah bent toward him, inhaled sharply, and discretely tried to move away. "Well," she said stoically, "that can all be fixed with a trip to the washing machine and a lot of fabric softener. Here”—she put the empty laundry basket on the floor—"put your dirty clothes in here and cover yourself in one of these towels. While I’m washing your clothes, you can sit on the couch and watch game shows on TV until they are ready."

The goblins happily began to follow her orders. After throwing his clothes in the basket, Ignor handed Sarah a package.

"Let me guess," said Sarah, looking down at the small, white box. "It's from the King?"

Ignor nodded and ran off to the couch, where the goblins were discovering the delights of game show television.

Given that Sarah had unwittingly unleashed a herd of sugar-high goblins in His Majesty's throne room, she felt very reluctant to open the package. In fact, she was worried that it contained the Underground equivalent of anthrax.

She took a deep breath and opened the lid. A card was on top. Sarah braced herself and opened it.

"_Dearest Sarah,_” she read. _ “Many…thanks…for your gifts._”

Sarah could almost see him smirking.

_“Though, why is it that giving one cookie to the goblins granted me approximately forty minutes of peace and quiet, whereas giving a box of cookies to the goblins granted me approximately four hours of mayhem and terror?”_

Sarah shuddered.

_“Surely, increasing the number of cookies should have increased the quiet time? But, no. Rather, the goblins began _singing_ after their multiple cookie consumption. Let me inform you, dear Sarah, that goblin singing is blood-curdlingly bad. _So _bad that most people who have had the misfortune to be in the vicinity of singing goblins usually attempt to remove their eardrums with a blunt stick. Even I, who have heard it many times before, felt a sudden urge to pound my head against the throne room floor until I became mercifully unconscious. _

_To make matters worse, your cookies were intriguingly potent: even after suspending the goblins over the bog, it took hours for the noxious fumes to shut them up._”

Sarah remembered the fragrance of the bog quite vividly. She pictured a net full of goblins singing above it.

It was enough to give a girl nightmares.

“_Despite these events, I am very aware of the fact that forty minutes of peace and quiet is approximately thirty-nine minutes and fifty-eight seconds more than I usually get. In fact, it's a new Underground record. Moreover, thirty-nine minutes and fifty-eight seconds of quiet time allowed me to complete several of the mazes erroneously labeled as 'difficult' in that otherwise splendid book of yours. I only hope the ones labeled 'expert' put up more resistance._”

"Show off," said Sarah. But she smiled thinking of Jareth, King of Goblins, Master of the Labyrinth, poring over the mazes in the puzzle book and yelling, "Don't defy me!" whenever he came to a particularly tricky turn.

“_So, to show my gratitude, please accept these. Winter is coming, and I'd hate you to catch cold, precious. Plus, they match the boots—one should have the full set. Fondly, Jareth, King of the Goblins._”

Fondly? Precious? Sarah was aware of the slight…tingle…that she felt when reading those words—though she stubbornly decided to put it down to standing too close to a vibrating washing machine.

She reached into the box and pulled out a pair of buttery-soft, skin-tight, black leather gloves.

It seemed that the Goblin King was sending her a few of his favorite things.

Smiling with genuine delight, she slipped them on, surprised by how the soft leather molded to the contours of her hand. She ran a gloved hand over the washing machine and her eyes widened—with each movement, the leather caressedher skin in a surprisingly pleasurable manner.

"So that's why you wear them! Jareth, you deviant you!" she laughed, flexing her fingers.

Nevertheless, she did not take them off. She was still wearing them—and absentmindedly stroking the washing machine—long after the clothes were done, and the goblins were calling for her to watch the 'spinning' game show with them.

* * *

Jareth's face was positively scrunched in concentration. "Alright, now all we need is a four-letter word for 'portable music carrier.’ "

The goblins sitting around the throne pretended to be deep in thought. One piped up. "What does 'portable' mean?"

Jareth did not look up from the crossword. "It means that it can move around."

"Ohhh," said the goblin.

"And what does 'music carrier' mean?" asked another goblin.

Jareth pinched the bridge of his nose. _I'm in hell_, he thought. "It means something that holds or plays or performs music."

"So…something that moves around and makes music?" asked Squeak.

Jareth nodded distractedly, staring at the crossword.

"A chicken!" yelled one goblin.

"A baby!" yelled another

"A chicken!"

"A fairy!"

"A chicken!"

Jareth looked up. "The next one who says, 'A chicken' will be doing laps in the bog."

"A goblin!" said one.

Jareth snorted. "The sound you fellows make is barely civilized enough to be called 'noise,’ let alone 'music.’ "

"A saucepan!"

"A chicken! _Ahhhgggg_!" the goblin squealed, putting his hands over his mouth.

There was complete and utter silence in the throne room.

"Oops," the offending goblin said, looking at Jareth sheepishly from behind his hands.

Jareth smiled at him pleasantly. "Goodbye, Beep."

Everyone looked at the space where Beep used to be.

"A king!" said Skeep.

Jareth looked down at the little goblin. "A king?"

Skeep lifted his chin. "King sing. King moves. King port-a-ble."

Jareth looked at the puzzle. "So, I am. And I am four letters long. But"—he showed Skeep the almost completed puzzle— "it doesn't fit with what we already have. But it was a jolly good try!"

Suddenly, Jareth's attention was caught by a strange smell. A rather pleasant smell and hence wholly out of place in the Goblin King's throne room. Taking a few strong sniffs, Jareth followed the smell…straight to Skeep. Jareth took a long look at the little goblin, noting that Skeep looked surprisingly…fresh. His clothes seemed cleaner and brighter than usual, from the top of his red tea cosy to the—

Jareth decided not to comment on the lacey, white socks that now peeked out from the pink stilettos.

"Skeep," he said quietly, "why do you smell like green apples?"

Skeep smiled and ran a hand lovingly over his clothes. He then leaned forward and whispered in the King's ear. "Fabric softener." The little goblin took an envelope from behind his back and handed it to Jareth. "From the Lady."

Jareth took the envelope from Skeep in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner. "Oh?" he said indifferently. His fingers, however, began to stroke the envelope, seemingly of their own volition. He caught himself and stopped abruptly, disturbed that he had been fondling stationary. “That will be all, Skeep."

Skeep ran, heels clattering, to a particularly noisy corner of the throne room where the goblins were chatting about the 'spinning' game show.

Jareth turned the envelope around in his hand and felt a slight…tingle. There it was again. _Excitement_. He shook his head, bemused. When did getting a letter from Sarah become the best part of his day? He looked around the chaos of the throne room and snorted. 

_Like there's a basis for comparison_.

As he began to open the envelope, Jareth’s attention was caught by a strange scraping sound. Looking up, he noticed that a goblin with blue tusks had been strapped on his back to a large, round barrel lid that lay flat on the floor. Several of the larger goblins began to spin the lid around as the crowd of onlookers began to chant.

"WHEEL-OF-FORTUNE!"

"Oh, lord no," said Jareth, horrified.

He watched in amazement as the barrel (and goblin) stopped spinning, and the rest of the crowd started yelling out letters to Skeep. With great aplomb, Skeep shuffled in his stilettos across a makeshift stage and began to turn around a series of dirty tiles, each with a chalk letter scrawled on the back.

Jareth stared hard at the letters. Apparently, the winning word was ‘XHBITREP.’ According to Skeep, however, the winning word was actually ‘CHICKEN.’

Jareth had a terrible feeling that the winning word would always be ‘chicken.’

"Squeak," he said, turning to the goblin sitting on the back of his throne, "remind me to institute a goblin literacy program."

Squeak nodded. "Yes, Majesty."

Jareth was about to turn back to Sarah's letter when Ignor and three other goblins came waddling up to the throne carrying a cardboard box with a shiny, red ribbon on top.

"From the Lady," said Ignor, panting, as they put the box on the ground near the throne.

Jareth smiled widely. He took a close look at the little group carrying the box. They all looked….clean. He inhaled sharply; the smell of green apples came wafting toward him, sharp and fresh.

"Let me guess," said Jareth. "You’re all wearing fabric softener?"

They nodded happily and ran off to play_ Wheel of Fortune_ with the rest of the goblins.

Jareth carefully opened the envelope and began to read Sarah's note.

"_Dear Jareth,_” the note began.

Jareth? Not Goblin King? Jareth smiled and settled back into his throne.

_I cannot tell you how sorry I am about the cookies. I should have warned you about the side effects of giving the goblins more than one. Once, at a picnic, Toby ate half a pack of chocolate cookies without our knowledge. He then ran around in a circle for fifteen minutes, terrorized a family of ducks, and was sick in another family's picnic basket." _

"That's my boy!" Jareth said fondly.

_"Having spent time with the goblins, I am very aware of how…demanding…they can be…"_

"AHHHHH!" screamed the goblin tied to the barrel lid as he was spun too vigorously, the lid flying out of the spinners’ hands.

Jareth looked up to see the barrel lid and its goblin passenger roll like a giant wheel right out of the throne room door. He cocked his ear, listening as the wheel rolled down the corridor, and then down a staircase, and then down another staircase, with the goblin squealing all the way.

"Squeak," said Jareth mildly, "go and make sure that he doesn't roll into the Escher room."

Squeak nodded, and he and the rest of the goblins ran out of the room.

" ‘_Demanding,’_ Sarah?" Jareth muttered. "Whatever gave you that idea?" He turned back to the letter.

"…_and I know how important a little quiet time is. So please accept these boxes of cookies. I calculate that they should give you approximately five hours and twenty-six minutes of quiet time in total. Although you should still only give them out one at a time, these cookies should have fewer side-effects." _

Jareth pulled the ribbon off the box and opened it up. Inside were many large boxes of cookies. Jareth pulled out a box and peered at the label.

"Sugar-free," he mused. He also pulled out a small parcel containing two oddly shaped pieces of soft foam.

Intrigued, he turned back to the letter.

_"The goblins were kind enough to sing for me. I feel your pain, Jareth. Really, I do. Please accept these earplugs just in case they do it again. Fond regards, Sarah."_

Jareth noticed that Sarah had not mentioned the gloves. He smirked knowingly and turned his attention to the packet of earplugs. He was reading the instructions on the back when Squeak and his group of goblins returned, dragging the barrel lid—or what was left of it—and the groaning goblin, who was still strapped to the remains.

Jareth put the earplugs into his ears, and the roaring noise of the throne room became a muted hum. He looked around in wonder. Experimentally, he pulled the earplugs out again.

_Roar. _

He put them back in.

_Hum. _

He closed his eyes blissfully. A small goblin tugged on his leg.

"Not now," said Jareth dreamily, eyes still closed. "I'm wearing earplugs."

* * *

Rosalinda looked down from her perch high in the rafters of the throne room and tried to find somewhere suitable to land.

_There!_

A red, woolen hat stood out temptingly from the drab surroundings.

Clucking in anticipation, Rosalinda leaped into the air and landed, with pinpoint accuracy, onto her red wool target.

Skeep screamed and fell face-first onto the floor—Rosalinda’s claws clutching the tea cosy in a death grip— his pink heels kicking futilely in the air. From his uncomfortable position on the floor, Skeep heard the King's droll voice.

"Would someone please liberate Skeep from that feathered menace?"

(Little did Rosalinda know that she had begun a chain of events that would change her destiny, and that of the Underground, _forever_).


	4. Chapter 4: Sometimes, vengeance comes in small, stiletto-wearing packages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not Sarah, not Jareth, definitely not Tijuana. I once owned a black chicken named Rosalia. She was completely evil. One night, I awoke to a crazy squawking sound—a wild dog had grabbed Rosalia and ran off with her. Three days later, she came back.   
I hate to think of what she did to that dog…

Sarah threw herself onto her bed, landing with a muffled _thwump _against the pillows. Smiling mischievously, she rolled onto her back and began to move her arms back and forth, making a snow angel on the bedcover.

_That's so juvenile, _she told herself sternly. 

_Bite me, _said her inner child, poking out its tongue.

She grinned up at the ceiling and turned to her bedside table, reaching for her new gloves. The leather felt both feather-soft and strangely warm to the touch. She delicately traced the contours of the gloves with her index finger, marveling at the fact that, unlike her other pairs of gloves, these had no seams. 

_Then again, my other gloves weren't a gift from a Goblin King, _she thought ruefully.

Slipping them on, Sarah moved her hands gracefully back and forth, almost as if she were juggling.

"If I were a Goblin King," she mused, "what would I be doing right now?"

She snorted. Probably something fiendish, like pitching goblins into the bog, or dismembering fireys, or setting the cleaners on poor Hoggle—

_Or, _said an inner voice, _writing you a letter. _

Sarah closed her eyes, thinking of the last letter the Goblin King had written to her. She wondered if he had induced another sugar-rush in the goblins.

She wondered if he had mastered the expert mazes.

She wondered if the earplugs she had sent him were mighty enough to withstand goblin singing.

She wondered why she was wondering about him in the first place.

Sarah sighed and pushed back the dark strands of hair that had fallen over her face. But as soon as her leather-clad hands swept over her scalp, a sudden surge of pleasure—lush and warm; a thing of shudders and sighs—shot through her body.

Her scalp positively _tingled_.

Sarah looked down at her gloved hands, completely aghast.

"Agh!" she yelled, pulling off the offending bits of leather and throwing them onto the floor. "That's enough of that, you pervert gloves!"

With a final, wary glance at the gloves, she lay back on the bed, breathing heavily.

“Stupid,” she scolded herself. How could she have forgotten the first rule: 'Beware of Goblin Kings bearing gifts'?

_Particularly when the gift is a pair of aphrodisiac gloves, _she thought, scowling.

Sarah's body ignored her thoughts and tingled away quite merrily.

Disgusted with herself, she made a mental note to refuse any more leather clothing from the Goblin King.

Her inner voice just laughed and whispered, _Oh, but just imagine if he gave you— _

Sarah stopped that thought dead in its tracks. She mentally grabbed her inner voice, put it in a headlock, and pushed it into a disused mine shaft in an unused corner of her mind. Dusting off her hands, she sternly told her body to get a hold of itself…or it would be next.

A sudden noise caught Sarah’s attention—a muffled, wailing kind of noise. Cautiously, she slid off her bed and walked around the room, trying to find the origin of the muffled, wailing noise.

As she walked toward the closet, the wailing appeared to be getting louder. When she put her ear on the closet door, , the noise got louder still. Grabbing the door handles, Sarah quickly yanked the closet doors open.

There, huddled in a tight ball of misery, clutching the sleeve of her fluffy, white sweater, was Skeep. He was wailing so hard that his pink heels were shaking. In his hands, he held his red tea cosy hat, as gently as you would hold an injured bird.

"Skeep!" exclaimed Sarah, kneeling in front of him. "What is it? What happened?!"

Skeep was filthy. His hair and clothes were covered in dirty straw and black chicken feathers. His sleeve was ripped, and there was a nasty scratch on his arm. His dirty little face was tear-stained, and his big, brown eyes were filled with such misery that Sarah could almost see his little shattered heart in their depths.

Skeep tried to stop crying, valiantly gulping in great mouthfuls of air. "Rosalinda!" he cried, venomously. He took another shaking breath. "Rosalinda…fell from sky." He brought his hands up high above his head, and then dramatically dropped them to the floor to simulate the fall of the vengeful chicken. "Rosalinda… fell… on hat." He looked down at the tea cosy, protectively held in his grasp. "Pretty hat…._broken_!" he wept, gently handing the hat to Sarah.

Sarah looked down at the tea cosy. There were two large holes where Rosalinda's claws had ripped through the red wool. When she put her finger through the hole, Skeep turned away, shuddering, unable to watch.

"Skeep," she said consolingly, "it's not as bad as it looks—"

"Hat BROKEN!" the goblin wailed.

Sarah shook her head. "No, Skeep. Really, it's—"

"GONE!" Skeep cried, throwing back his head and howling.

Sarah noted that the sound was a strange cross between a fire siren and a combine harvester at full throttle. Her eardrums began to burn. Sarah put her hands over her ears. "Skeep, please—it's going to be alright—"

"DEAD!" Skeep screamed, throwing his hands over his face and falling backward, pink heels wiggling in the air.

Sarah reached out and clamped her hand over Skeep's mouth. "Skeep, stop crying. I can fix it."

Skeep abruptly stopped wailing. He took a few gulping breaths and lowered his feet to the ground.

Seeing that he was more subdued, Sarah cautiously removed her hand from his mouth.

"Fix?" Skeep asked hopefully, wiping the tears from his eyes.

Sarah smiled and nodded. "Fix. Just like new." She picked Skeep up and put him on her bedside table. "I'm just going to get a few things to fix your hat. You stay here, okay?" She gently placed the tea cosy on his lap. "Don't you worry about a thing, Skeep; everything is going to be okay, I promise. Just stay here. Okay?"

Skeep nodded. "Okay, Lady."

With a gentle pat on Skeep’s shoulder, Sarah ran off to the bathroom to gather the necessary supplies.

Skeep plucked a few of the black feathers from his shirt, his heels swinging back and forth off the edge of the bedside table. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand and sniffed.

"Fix," he said, patting the tea cosy consolingly. Looking around the table, he noticed Sarah's small makeup collection.

"Pretty," he said dreamily, stroking a pot of eye-shadow.

* * *

Jareth was sprawled on his throne, absolutely and thoroughly disgusted with himself. The disgust had started just after he had spent two hours and fourteen minutes deciding on the right color paper to use for his next letter to Sarah. The disgust had then increased after he had spent a further forty-six minutes choosing just the right shade of ink to use with the writing paper. The disgust had then kicked into overdrive when he had changed his mind about the paper _and_ the ink, and he found himself seriously contemplating the idea of reordering time, just so that he could start all over again.

He shook his head, his wild, gold strands shaking furiously. What was he becoming? Was this any way for the Goblin King to act?

Furious with himself, he picked up his riding crop and threw it across the throne room.

"Agh!" he yelled in frustration.

"Agh!" yelled a goblin in surprise as the riding crop hit him right between the eyes, sending him crashing to the floor

The rest of the goblins roared with laughter.

Jareth peered at the injured goblin on the floor and frowned. "Is that you, Beep?" he asked solicitously, recognizing the goblin whom he had sent to the bog only a few days earlier.

The injured goblin nodded miserably.

“Welcome back, Beep," Jareth said pleasantly. He sniffed the air and grimaced. "Though, do be sure to stay as far away from the throne as possible."

Beep nodded again and shuffled off to a far corner of the room.

Jareth threw one lean leg over the throne and went back to thinking about how disgusted he was with himself. What was happening to him? How could he have spent three hours just _preparing_ to write a letter? He could have spent the time much more fruitfully. Perhaps by throwing a few goblins into the bog. Or dismembering those pesky fireys and tossing their assorted limbs to the Helping Hands. Or setting the Cleaners on Higgle. 

_Or, _said an inner voice, _re-reading Sarah's letters over and over again, particularly the part where she called you ‘Jareth,’ and said, ‘fond regards.’_

"Enough!" Jareth shouted, jumping up from the throne. "Stupid thoughts, tra la la!"

He began to pace, quick, clipped strides across the length of the room. He had to get out of the castle. He was not himself lately and he knew that he was about a minute away from doing something completely irrational just to get his mind off Sarah and his next letter.

_To get my mind off Sarah, I'd probably have to eat a whole box of her lethal cookies and then start dancing around the throne room, singing sea shanties, _he thought ruefully.

He shuddered at the thought. No matter how desperate he felt, he _refused_ to prance around like a demented sailor in front of his subjects just to get his mind off a girl.

Even if that girl was Sarah.

_You have to regain control of the situation, old chap, _he told himself, squaring his shoulders.

He needed a plan. First things first, he would go and change his clothes.

Perhaps he'd put on something black.

Maybe something with a bit of glitter.

And a touch of menace.

Feeling better now that he had a plan, Jareth turned on his heel and headed toward the exit. Just as he reached the doorway, he noticed Skeep shuffle into the room in his high heels, a bright, pink band-aid proudly displayed on his skinny, little arm.

"Skeep!" Jareth called out.

Skeep looked up and smiled. "Hey, King!" he said, waving to Jareth happily.

Jareth closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. His subjects were waving at him. He opened his eyes and surveyed the room.

"Would it kill you all to _cower_ before me once in a while?" he asked wearily. "Is that really too much to ask?"

Squeak looked up from his perch on the back of the throne. "Majesty, you said that you were in the mood for _groveling _this week. _Cowering _is not scheduled till next week.”

Jareth paused thoughtfully. And smiled. "So, I did Squeak; you're quite right. Though I want _waving _at me to be completely outlawed."

Squeak nodded. "Of course, your Majesty."

Jareth looked down at Skeep…who was still happily waving at him. He turned back to Squeak. "In fact, I want waving at me to be punished by death."

Squeak's eyebrows rose. "Death?"

Jareth smiled grimly. "Certain Death."

Squeak looked at the waving Skeep and frowned. "I'll get right on it."

"Come here, Skeep," Jareth commanded.

Skeep dutifully shuffled across the room until he stood before Jareth. "Yes, King?"

Jareth bent down until he was at eye-level with the little goblin and peered at the pink band-aid on Skeep's arm. "Skeep, do I even want to know what happened to you?"

Skeep nodded happily.

Jareth sighed. "Well?" he said, irritated. "Begin!"

Skeep took a big breath, puffing out his little chest. "Rosalinda fell from sky. Fell on hat."

Jareth waved his hand impatiently. "Yes, yes—I remember. Then what?"

"Hat broken! Hat GONE!" Skeep wailed, momentarily overcome by the memory of the catastrophe.

"But your hat looks fine, Skeep." Jareth peered at the red tea cosy perched on Skeep’s pointy, little head. "Ridiculous, but fine."

Skeep nodded, wiping his nose with the back of his arm. "Lady fixed it. With the crunching machine." He reached up and happily stroked the newly-repaired hat.

"The crunching machine?"

Skeep nodded.

Jareth took a closer look at the tea cosy and noticed a row of staples on either side of the hat, holding the torn woolen threads together. He grinned. It appeared that Sarah was handy with office supplies. He briefly wondered if Sarah had stapled the hat to Skeep's head. Leaning closer to check, he caught a whiff of green apples.

"I take it that Sarah fixed you up as well?" he asked, noting that Skeep looked rather fresh and clean for a goblin who had recently been attacked by a feral chicken.

Skeep nodded. "The Lady fixed here”—he pointed to his knee—"and here"—he pointed to his head—"and here"—he pointed to his arm. "Pretty," he said, stroking his Band-Aid dreamily.

Jareth tapped his nose thoughtfully with one gloved finger. "Rosalinda hurt you in all of those places?"

Skeep nodded, not looking up from his band-aid.

Jareth looked around the throne room, trying to locate the vengeful Rosalinda. He found her in a corner, happily pecking away at the leg of a sleeping goblin. With a flick of his wrist, a peach appeared in his palm.

"Rosalinda," he purred, "I have a present for you."

He bent down and rolled the peach toward Rosalinda. The peach skillfully avoided the tankards of ale and drunken goblins in its path and stopped just in front of Rosalinda’s claws. A hush fell over the throne room as the goblins watched the chicken peer at the delectable piece of fruit.

Rosalinda looked suspiciously at Jareth for a moment, then started to peck at the luscious fruit greedily.

After about a minute, the silence was broken by the sound of a chicken hitting the throne room floor.

"Yeahhy!" cried Skeep, throwing his little arms into the air. "Chicken dead?"

Jareth shrugged. "One can only hope."

The goblins quickly crossed the throne room and surrounded Rosalinda. The four-time chicken-toss champion was lying on her back, her legs sticking stiffly in the air.

Ignor cautiously poked her with a stick. “Rosalinda? Are you dead?”

Rosalinda let out a sleepy cluck.

"Nope," he said, with a sigh of relief. "She's just sleeping."

Jareth bent over the sleeping chicken. "Such a pity," he said dryly. He looked up at the goblins. "What do you say, fellows? Shall I give her the ballroom dream?"

The goblins started to laugh and cheer uproariously.

Skeep doubled over with laughter. "Chicken in a _dress!_"

"What do you say, Rosalinda?” Jareth asked jovially. “Fancy a twirl?" He poked her, just to make sure she was sleeping soundly.

Skeep went to poke her, too, but lost his balance while trying to bend down in stilettos and landed in an ungainly heap.

Jareth reached over and picked him up. "Try again, Skeep. Be sure to poke nice and hard."

Skeep looked up at Jareth adoringly. “Thanks, King!”

It was then that Jareth noticed that Skeep was wearing green glitter eye-shadow. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Skeep, old chap," he said wearily, "if you ever come back from Sarah's wearing a dress, you and I are going to have to have a _long _talk."

* * *

**Author’s Note: **I promise that Sarah and Jareth will get together soon—as in the next chapter. I think. I need Rosalinda's help to get them together, and right now she is too busy wandering around a ballroom, laying eggs in the pillow pit, dive-bombing off the chandeliers, and terrorizing the dancers by pecking them in the calves when they least expect it. Not surprisingly, Jareth hasn't asked her to dance…yet.


End file.
